


Oleander Yolling

by hypothetical_chainsaw



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Childhood Memories, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hilda's POV, Marie's POV, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post Part 3, Salem cameo - Freeform, Zarie, time for some backstories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25770775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypothetical_chainsaw/pseuds/hypothetical_chainsaw
Summary: The mortuary has been quiet in the months since they defeated the pagans and Marie became a permanent resident. There have been no attempts on their lives, from external sources or those closer to home, and Hilda's eternally grateful. Now their peace is threatened, Zelda and Marie's relationship is met with a potentially difficult conversation and Hilda's left with the unnerving feeling that she'll be reacquainting herself with the Cain pit sooner than she'd hoped.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman & Zelda Spellman, Marie LaFleur (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina)/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 33
Kudos: 51





	1. Radishes Round and Runner Beans Flat

Hilda was tending to the radishes when she first suspected someone was trying to kill her.

She knelt low over the seedlings, voice soft, as she surveyed each one, "I'm so proud of each and every one of you. Hardly a drop of sunlight, and yet you've sprouted marvellously." She lifted tiny leaves with a delicate brush of her finger and nodded in certainty, "And today's the day you experience the wide open world, my loves."

Bundling the small tray of sprouts under her arm, she rose to her feet and let out a soft hum at the tension-relieving crack her knees gave at the movement. Perhaps it really was time to admit that, at 248, a knee cushion would be a worthwhile investment. She'd have Dr Cee drive her across to the garden centre in Greendale on his next day off. They could make a day of it; go to the little cafe. She loved the little cafe.

"Mmm, that'll be nice, won't it, my sunbeams?" She mused at the tray of sprouts as she drew the greenhouse door closed behind her.

It was the first mild day they'd had all year and the sun peaked out from behind the scant clouds to warm Hilda's cheeks. She was not the only Spellman to be relieved at its appearance; Marie's melodic intonations sounded from the other end of the porch and, if recent months had taught her anything, where she found Marie she was sure to find Zelda. This morning was no exception. A quick survey of the porch revealed her reclining against her favourite wicker chair, sun reflector casting a warm glow against her skin. Her feet rested upon Marie's lap as the witch dutifully read the paper aloud to her.

"Wu Zetian, seule et unique impératrice ayant régné sur l'empire du Milieu, a apporté la démonstration qu'une femme pouvait gouverner comme un homme."

Zelda's lips curved upwards as she hummed her approval, "I like her already."

Hilda shook her head softly. Zelda had cancelled her _Le Monde_ subscription decades ago _._ It had fallen out of her favour at some point in the late sixties; when the paper had changed hands and she'd received a particularly curt letter informing her that they would no longer be running her articles. The subscription had been reinstated once more the same week that Marie's satin pillowcase had become a permanent fixture on Zelda's bed.

At the creak of the decking beneath her sister's feet, Zelda's eyebrow raised in annoyance. Hilda shrugged apologetically before trudging onward to the small bed of soil she'd turned the day before. Salem lay in it's centre. He batted his tail indignantly but otherwise seemed unperturbed by Hilda's presence.

"Oi."

He didn't budge. Changing tack she held her watering can aloft, it's shadow falling over the familiar. His tail quickened in its disgruntled swishing and he swiped at the can.

"Ah ah ah," Hilda scolded lightly and tipped the can ever so slightly, water sloshing towards the spout, "We've been through this; vegetable bed, not cat bed."

It was only as the first drops hit his fur that he acquiesced and left the patch, sculking off in search of a new sun spot.

She lowered herself to the ground, cross legged this time, the earth sun-warmed beneath her. No wonder Salem had liked it.

The sun was glorious against her neck, but she was thankful for the cooling breeze that tousled her hair all the same. She frowned as it brushed passed her ear, carrying with it a long forgotten melody and memories of her earliest summers in the garden.

* * *

She had been just 6 the first time her mother had asked her help collect the harvest. Her mother's stomach had swelled to larger than Hilda dared believe possible that spring and before the summer was through Edward would make his arrival.

Under her mother's direction, Hilda had diligently tended each plant, delighting each time one was deemed ripe enough to be plucked from the ground. Her favourites had been the strawberries, each plump and sweet upon the bush, and as many ended as juice around her smile as in the basket.

Zelda had watched from the porch, cigarette between her lips, the hum of a soft tune dancing on the wind to her sister's young ears. It was a one of Zelda's favourites, but with lyrics reserved only for when she drew the covers high around Hilda's ears, lulling her off to sleep with the tale of two sisters.

* * *

The song had gone unsung for decades and Hilda couldn't avoid the shiver that passed through her at hearing it again. As quickly as it had arrived however, it was but a memory once more. Straightening her back, Hilda cast a glance back towards her sister with wary eyes. For her part, Zelda showed no obvious signs of having heard the song; seemingly too entranced by Marie's reading of the paper for anything else.

Disquiet abated for the time being Hilda returned to the task at hand; carving out divots in the soft earth. She began a jaunty tune of her own, eager to distract from the one now repeating in her head. Her own song was nonsense, but it drowned out her sister's remembered cadence.

" _Cauliflowers fluffy, and cabbages green, strawberries sweeter than any I've seen._ " She made quick work of settling each seedling in its new home, bewitching an anti-frost charm into the soil with each one.

Salem watched from his spot atop the closest grave, lounging along the length of Locasta Spellman's headstone, his gaze intent on the newly homed buds, "Perhaps we'll put a little protection spell on you as well, my sweets, just to be safe."

She reached behind her for the trowel as she spoke, hand running across only grass. The space beside the watering can lay bare. Confusion spiking, she glanced across her other shoulder, searching the floor for any sign of it. She was not nearly old enough to be misplacing things yet.

Something glinted in the corner of her vision. Hilda span sharply in it's direction, coming face to face with her trowel. It hovered ominously at eye level, tip brandished as though a weapon.

Her voice rose slightly, hoping to catch the ears of whoever might be controlling it, "Now dears, let's not do anything hasty. I'll whip up a fresh batch of tea and we can discuss this like rational people."

It had been several months since she'd ended up in the Cain pit and she was rather hoping to avoid the eventuality for a few more still. Her eyes darted frantically for any sign of an assailant but, bar her nieces vexed familiar, the lawn was quiet. That was, until the echo of her sister's song from long ago floated on the wind once more.

" _Sister, sister, come down to the broom,  
__Oleander yolling,_  
_We'll hear the black birds change their tune,  
__Down by the waters rolling._ "

The voice was lighter than Zelda's had been in years, ethereal almost, and originating from an unseen source. It continued and, with it, the trowel vibrated fiercely.

"Oh crumbs." Hilda rasped, the air escaping her.

Without warning, it shot forward violently, and Hilda ducked forward with such sudden vigor that was sent crashing painfully to the floor. Salem's yowl rang out as the trowel continued in its trajectory. It struck Aunt Locasta's headstone with enough force to splinter it, the two halves careening off in opposite directions.

The ghostly voice stopped. As did Marie's reading. She sat shell shocked for a beat, before shoving Zelda's feet from her lap and hurrying across the lawn.

"Ti sè!" She cried, pages of _Le Monde_ fluttering forgotten in the wind behind her, "Se ou byen?"

Hilda was on her knees by the time she reached her, already brushing dirt from her front. A strong arm pulled her to standing and Marie, rather more forcefully, continued the job of cleaning her off as she scanned for any signs of injury.

"Just a little murder attempt," Hilda offered a meek smile, her eyes darting over Marie's shoulder to the porch; to her sister leaning heavy on the railing, "Nothing to worry about."

Rather than sharing Marie's look of concern, Zelda's frown suggested only annoyance. A flick of her wrist brought the scattered leaves of her newspaper back together, folding neatly on the seat Marie had vacated. Eyes meeting Hilda's, she pursed her lips and returned to her chair, focus intent on lighting a cigarette.

"Nothing to worry about?" Marie tilted Hilda's chin up sharply, searching for a sign that Hilda understood the severity, "Someone is trying to _touye ou_."

The blonde simply nodded, "And they're normally better at it."

Excusing herself from Marie's bewilderment, Hilda marched the length of the lawn stopping only when she reached the plume of smoke surrounding her sister. She rocked on the balls of her feet, a wary smile gracing her lips.

"So," Hilda began, all too cheery for the situation at hand, "Don't know if you saw, but someone's trying to kill me," She thrust her thumb in the direction of the fractured gravestone before wringing her hands together, "again."

Staring her sister down, Zelda drew deeply from her cigarette before speaking, voice nonchalant, "Yes, are you quite done with the theatrics? The paper won't read itself and Marie isn't familiar enough with your melodramatics to know when to pay them no mind."

This wasn't going the way Hilda had hoped at all. She moved the paper to the ground, earning her a warning flare of Zelda's nostrils, before perching on the edge of the chair.

"Well Zelds, I have a _teensy_ idea of who it might have been," She paused, watching for any sign that a confession might be forthcoming. Nothing. Hilda pushed onward, "And if she'd like to explain to me what I've done this time, maybe we can move past it without any bloodshed for once."

Having checked on Salem, Marie joined them on the porch, concern still moulding her face. She stood at Hilda's side, offering a comforting squeeze of her shoulder.

"Oh? Do enlighten us." Zelda drawled, her voice devoid of any signs of interest.

Something felt wrong about saying it in front of Marie, no matter how true. Hilda did her best to remain jovial as she spoke but found herself gulping down the words regardless, "You of course, Zelda."

Marie's gasp sounded from her side. A moment passed during which nothing was said, though Zelda's eyes blazed with resentment. It was suddenly abundantly clear that Hilda's trepidation had been well deserved; her frequent resurrections hadn't featured in the couple's pillow talk.

Schooling her features, Zelda rolled her eyes and stubbed out her cigarette.

"Hilda please, if I wanted you dead you'd know about it." She stood, scooping up the paper and thrust it into Marie's chest, "Marie, I think I'd rather hear about Wu Zetian inside. There's a sudden chill in the air."

The paper was thrust into Marie's chest and she was gone before either could remark on the brilliant heat of the midmorning sun. The mortuary shook with her departing door slam.

"Well that went swimmingly." Hilda bemoaned, picking at the sleeve of her cardigan as she stood. Even a particularly potent stain banishing potion would do little to remove mud from wool that old.

"You really think your sister would try to kill you?"

"It's her favourite hobby." Hilda offered an apologetic smile for the admission. It fell quickly at the series of thuds and crashes that tracked her sister's progression from room to room.

"Let me speak with her, ti sè. At least there were no casualties." Marie gave one last squeeze of Hilda's shoulder before following the high priestess inside.

Alone on the porch, Hilda finally dared chance a glance at the crumpled sprout leaves that she had lovingly nurtured for the last two weeks. Not a single one had escaped unscathed, "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Lawn now quiet but for the breeze through the trees, Salem returned to his spot in the vegetable bed, making three small turns before settling on what remained of Hilda's crop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wu Zetian, seule et unique impératrice ayant régné sur l’empire du Milieu, a apporté la démonstration qu’une femme pouvait gouverner comme un homme - Wu Zetian, the one and only empress who reigned over the Middle Kingdom, demonstrated that a woman can rule like a man (from a recent article Le Monde ran called "Sex and Power" that I thought Zelda would particularly appreciate.  
> Ti sè - Little sister  
> Se ou byen - are you okay  
> Touye ou - kill you
> 
> I promise more cute Zarie in later chapters, I just got a tad carried away with Hilda as she's an actual joy to write.
> 
> Thanks for reading and let me know what you think!


	2. Possessions, Spirits, and Unearthly Happenings

By the time Marie joined her in the parlor, Zelda was deep in her whiskey glass. The clock on the mantle had yet to chime 11 and Marie smiled sympathetically from her place in the doorway. This was the earliest start she’d made on the drinks trolley in a while. 

Despite the sunlight through the window the witch sat in shadow, heels discarded and stockinged feet beneath her. She had studiously forsaken her favourite seat, cast as it was in the sun’s warm glow, for the plush loveseat at the other end of the rug. For the first time since Marie had known her, she looked truly fragile.

Lowering the tumbler to her lap, Zelda gestured to the paper at her side, pages still crumpled from their journey across the lawn.

“Wu Zetian won’t read herself, Marie.” She huffed before stretching her arm along the back of the sofa in an odd mimicry of her usual behaviour.

“She won’t” Marie agreed, but moved the newspaper to the far end of the couch to sit directly beside Zelda. She ignored the indignant glare the action prompted, “But I’m sure she will forgive us a moment’s pause, ma cherie.”

Taking a firm grasp of Zelda’s hand, whiskey glass and all, Marie cupped it in her own, her thumb brushing across the base of her wrist. The skin there was velvet soft and the witch’s fingers slackened under her ministrations. With a gentle grip, Marie took the whiskey from her open hand and set it alongside her shoes. She had learnt this technique early on for soothing Zelda’s nerves and promptly returned to it so as not to lose its effect.

Neither spoke for some time. The seconds ticked into minutes and, when at last the pulse beneath Marie’s fingers slowed, she drew her gaze up to meet Zelda’s.

“There is something we should discuss, no?” She questioned softly, waiting for the inevitable glazing of Zelda’s eyes as her walls reinstated themselves.

It didn’t come. Instead her fingers flexed within Marie’s own, stretching to their very limit before relaxing in defeat.

“If I said no?”

“If you did not feel you could trust me,” Marie brought Zelda’s hand to her lips, her lipstick leaving smudged residue against its knuckles with her delicate kiss, “I would not push you.”

Silence enveloped the room once more. It surrounded them until it was near suffocating. For all that she was considering, Zelda’s face remained startlingly void of expression. In a single languid movement, she sprung from the sofa, sloshing the remnants of the whiskey to the floor with a stocking-clad foot. It was ignored as she fled to the mantle, leaning against it, her back to Marie.

“There’s nothing to discuss.” Though quiet, Zelda’s voice remained resolute leaving no illusion on whether she would entertain that train of discussion further.

“As you wish.” 

Though her arms longed to draw the witch’s body tight in a more tactile show of support, Marie instead felt behind her for the newspaper, dragging it into her lap and searched the sheets for the article once more. It was grass stained but legible still.

“En quatre ans, l’ambitieuse gravit tous les échelons du pouvoir, mettant à profit l’emprise qu’elle exerce sur le souverain.” They’d read this passage before but if Zelda noticed she didn’t let on, “Elle obtient le titre de Zetian _selon la volonté du ciel_ , place aux leviers de l’Etat des membres du clan Wu et impulse de profonds changements.”

Marie watched over the paper as Zelda proceeded to turn in place, eyes still clouded but clear enough at least that tears no longer threatened to fall imminently.

“It is a powerful woman who sees where changes are needed.” Marie mused and watched Zelda’s brow arch incredulously. She returned to the paper, “Wu Zetian promeut le bouddhisme au détriment-”

“Marie,” Zelda interrupted, arms crossing across her chest haughtily.The action was still off, but the balance between her usual reserve and the raw vulnerability from moments ago was leveling to something more recognisably Zelda, “Let’s skip to the poisonings, shall we?”

“You do not wish to hear about a powerful woman bringing new religion to her people while seeking justice for the women under her protection?” Marie’s question was matter of fact despite the smirk that threatened to curve her lips.

“If you’re going to make a point out of it, no.” While the threat of tears was gone, clear annoyance sat in its place adding a dangerous bite to her words.

“No point, ma cherie. But I do find it,” The pride rang clear in Marie’s voice as her eyes met Zelda’s, “ _Inspirational._ ”

“Perhaps she has no desire to be inspirational.” The walls were building rapidly now and yet Marie could not resist one final push.

“Perhaps not.” Marie agreed, “But perhaps it is part of her story anyway.” Before Zelda could object, Marie’s hand was raised in surrender, “The poisonings are next, mon chou.”

* * *

Having deemed her radishes crushed beyond repair, Hilda conceded that their only use now was as a cat bed after all and left Salem to continue his sunbathing. She paused a few moments on the porch, wiggling the nervous energy from her limbs. Slipping into the entryway she paused, hearing Marie’s voice ring through from the parlour. They were back on the article from outside, it seemed, but the energy was different; still held the tense electricity her accusation had brought about.

The thought had hit her as soon as she’d voiced her concern; what if it hadn’t been Zelda? True, it bore her hallmark, but for the first attempt in months to be so unprovoked didn’t resemble her sister’s behaviour at all. She recounted her actions of the day, searching for anything that could have warranted such a response in Zelda’s eyes. Bar the suggestion that she spend a few additional nights at Dr Cee’s each week, to allow the couple a little _much needed_ privacy, there had been no obvious departures from their everyday routine.

Marie’s voice stopped abruptly, Zelda’s cutting through the air in a way she’d heard far too many times before; her attempts to keep her emotions in check fluctuating with every word. Had this been any other time in their life, it would have been Hilda’s cue that her intervention was needed. As it was, Marie had more than proven her ability to guide Zelda through these episodes in recent months. It wasn’t Hilda’s place any more, not alone at least, and she found herself at a sudden loss of what to do for the better.

Her spot in the hall only served to agitate her further; her sister’s tensions seeping through from the parlour to mingle with her own anxieties. A spot of tea would do wonders to calm her but, with her path through the parlor likely to be a treacherous one, she abandoned all hope of a freshly brewed pot and instead shuffled through to the study at the far end of the house. She left the door ajar. No matter her sister’s current feelings towards her, Hilda had no desire to be closed in a room alone after such a close brush with death.

While tea was out of the question, she sought solace in the familiar comfort of the slippers she kept hidden beneath the desk. She buried her toes into the fluff, luxuriating in the sensation for a moment before turning her attention to the bookcase. This was Zelda’s domain, but if the answers to the mystery of who her aggressor was was anywhere it would be hidden within the pages of her sister's age-worn tomes.

She stooped low, tapping at her lower lip as she read each title, “ _Avoiding Zombies: The Particulars of Skillful Necromancy; The Complete Compendium of Demonic Curses; Advanced Bubbling,_ that’s mine,” She pulled the book from the shelf setting it aside for later, “ _Possessions, Spirits, and Unearthly Happenings_ that’s the ticket!”

Hilda hadn’t felt the need to engage with magics outside her wheelhouse in decades and the book was considerably heavier than she remembered. It was with a rather satisfying _thwack_ that she set it down on the desk, puffing a strand of hair from her face at the frankly herculean effort. The answer was here, she could feel it.

* * *

Article finished, Marie folded the newspaper along it’s middle, resting it on the arm of the chair. She eyed Zelda cautiously for any signs that she would be likely to shut down again. Her posture had relaxed considerably since she began reading and now she seemed only to lean against the fireplace out of convenience rather than a desire for distance.

Taking this as a positive sign, Marie reached for the whiskey glass at the sofa’s base. Wordlessly, she crossed to the drinks trolley, filling it from the bottle at the back of the tray. Perching against the sofa’s arm, her knees brushing Zelda’s, she held the glass aloft in offering.

Zelda’s eyebrow quirked as she took it, “Vodka?”

“Water.”

It was returned without so much as a sip. Marie had suspected it would be. She drank from it herself instead; in need of something to quell the fluttering within her stomach as she decided her approach.

“The children could stand to learn from such a powerful woman, could they not?” She questioned nonchalantly around the tumbler before setting it down at her side.

“A mortal on the curriculum? We won’t be straying quite that far from our traditions, thank you.” Zelda’s dry tone was firmly back in place. 

“A strong woman who can admit to her history and still lead her people with pride has something to teach us all.” Anticipating resistance, Marie slipped her hand into Zelda’s squeezing softly.

“So it’s not the children you’re hoping will learn from her after all.” They had been skirting around the suggestion for too long to avoid the inference. She wasn’t wrong.

“I will not judge you, ma cherie. You know this.” 

Marie’s hand was back at her wrist, thumb tracing the delicate veins below its surface. This could end one of two ways and she would do all she could to ensure it was in her favour.

Zelda flicked her curls over her shoulder before fixing Marie with a pointed look, “My decisions aren’t based on your judgement.”

“No? Well if ever they were, know that I am no stranger to women doing what they must to survive.”

“Every action isn’t survival.” Zelda bit back.

“But many are.” 

Marie’s words settled heavy in the air. Her history had been peppered with actions that, while she was not proud of them, had led her to her current path. One too many spells cast in anger. Curses retracted too late. They hadn’t delved into much of her past, focusing only on the moments most pertinent to her arrival in Greendale. She kept her eyes on Zelda’s, hoping her gaze carried with it the silent understanding that they were not all that different.

It seemingly did.

“Wu Zetian and I share a certain...penchant for killing family members.” Zelda pursed her lips, seemingly struggling for the next word. It came out a sober murmur, “Sisters.”

Marie nodded slowly. The admission was not the first Zelda had made of times passed that she had no desire to recall, but it was the first in which her own actions might be called into question. 

A creak sounded from somewhere behind them. Ignoring it Marie pressed on, needing Zelda’s trust to continue, if only for a moment longer.

“So Hilda’s suspicions were not unwarranted.”

“Not entirely, no.” Zelda’s fingers fluttered against Marie’s palm. 

She had left her cigarettes outside in her haste and her agitation was palpable. It was perhaps the longest Marie had seen her go without one. Silently, Marie pulled one from her pocket. She had stowed it there for an _ijans nikotin_ and this seemed as close to an emergency as they were likely to get. Lighting it with a softly uttered incantation, she placed it between Zelda’s middle and forefingers. Had it not been for the delicate situation, the clumsiness with which she clutched it as she brought it to her lips might have been comical.

“Not for some time though?” Marie continued, “Unless it has been while I te dòmi.”

“I haven’t...not for months. Since-” Hand hovering over the dimpled scarring of her bullet wound, Zelda cut her sentence short but the meaning was clear enough.

She drew from the cigarette again, hand shaking. As she lowered it, Marie took it in her grasp once more and, eyes never leaving Zelda’s, raised her wrist to her lips, planting a feather light kiss against the fragile skin. 

A clunk from the entryway halted whatever implicit understanding they were reaching and Zelda straightened, all signs of vulnerability gone.

“Hildegarde, you always were a frightful earwig.”

Cover blown, Hilda padded apologetically into the parlor, her slippers muffling each step. In her hands she clutched the copy of _Possessions, Spirits, and Unearthly Happenings_ she had been poring over, a finger trapped between the pages just before the midpoint.

“I didn’t hear-” Her sister fixed her with a challenging glare and she smiled apprehensively before continuing, “Much. But I think I _might_ have figured out the bugger who’s trying to kill me.”

Zelda rolled her eyes, “Really Hilda, it’s like living with an overzealous Poirot.”

“Zelds,” All traces of levity left Hilda as she lowered her voice, suddenly fearful, “If I’m right, even the Cain Pit won’t raise me again.”

Her words were fast followed by a brief refrain of the same haunting verse from earlier that morning. 

_"So she took her sister by the hand  
Oleander yolling  
And led her down to the river strand  
Down by the waters rolling  
And as they stood at the river's brim  
Oleander yolling  
The eldest pushed her sister in"_

The tune was curtailed only by the sickening sight of the mantle candelabra flying straight for Hilda's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter changed so many times as I wrote it, with Zelda both admitting and not to having killed Hilda in the past. But Marie's got a way with Zelda and I'm all for it!
> 
> En quatre ans, l’ambitieuse gravit tous les échelons du pouvoir, mettant à profit l’emprise qu’elle exerce sur le souverain - In four years, the ambitious woman climbed the levels of power, taking advantage of the hold she wielded over the sovereign.  
> Elle obtient le titre de Zetian selon la volonté du ciel , place aux leviers de l’Etat des membres du clan Wu et impulse de profonds changements - She obtains the title of Zetian "according to Heaven's will", places Wu clan members in state levers, and drives profound changes  
> Wu Zetian promeut le bouddhisme au détriment - Wu Zetian promotes Buddhism to the detriment  
> Ma chérie - my darling  
> Mon chou - sweetie/my cabbage  
> Ijans nikotin - Nicotine emergency  
> te dòmi - slept
> 
> One more part left! I hope you're still enjoying it and any comments/thoughts are always appreciated!


	3. Death Does Not Keep You Down For Long

A candelabra to the head was not how Hilda had imagined herself dying. True, under these particular set of circumstances it would be a dramatic ending, but it was not the final death she’d been hoping for.

Previous ‘rests’ in the Cain Pit had afforded her ample time to consider her options. While she truly loved her sister, each death at her hands had felt worse than the last. Each brought with it more pain, another chronic niggle that stayed with her long after her resurrection, but more than that, it brought the eternal heartache of hearing her sister’s strangled sobs of “Hildie” as she cried herself to sleep each night that Hilda dragged herself from the pit a little later than anticipated.

No, Hilda Spellman envisioned another type of death entirely for her last meeting with the other side. She pictured something considerably more gentle. The crisp of a chill autumn morning, nature surrounding her, her hand entwined in that of the man she loved, he too wrinkled with age. It would be a quiet affair in which she succumbed to the passing of time and welcomed its end with a warm embrace.

This was not that and, as she closed her eyes, she mourned for what could have been.

If she were quite honest, Hilda had expected her final death to be more painful, or quicker, maybe bring with it a cacophony of sound and emotion flooding to her. The emotion was there for certain, and the sound, in the form of that ominous tune from memories old. But there had been nothing like the pain she’d experienced at Zelda’s hand, perhaps a sharp scratch at most, and it was seemingly taking a startlingly long time to take its effect.

She dared to crack her eye open a touch, taking in the blurry picture around her. She was still upright, that was certain, and the chill brass of the candelabra scraped at her brow. She could feel that. But more alarmingly, she could still see it; frozen in place at the moment of impact. It vibrated menacingly mid-air as the song rose in volume, pulsing in her ears. And yet, another sound joined it; a voice, heavily accented, battling for dominance in a language she knew only one to speak with such fluidity. _Marie._

The witch’s hand was aloft, straining with the effort of the incantation through her lips that warred with whatever unseen force acted on the candelabra. She dragged her arm through the air in a languid motion, voice rising to a booming resonance Hilda had never heard from her before.

“ _Inyore mèt envizib. Swiv limyè a sèlman!_ ”

The candelabra quivered more wildly under her force, jerking back before careening forwards once more with renewed vigor. Finally jolted into action, Zelda pushed forward from the mantle, eyes wide, near black, as she pursed her lips tightly together against whatever power built within her. 

Wind whipped violently around her ears, whether Marie’s doing, Zelda’s, or that of whatever controlled the candelabra Hilda wasn’t certain, but it was deafening, drowning out the singing all together. And with it, the candelabra dropped suddenly by her feet.

Hilda too fell, knees weak as the adrenaline coursed through her. She inhaled sharply, suddenly realising she hadn’t throughout the entire ordeal. The oxygen burned in her lungs after too long without out and she welcomed the sensation as a sign of her continued existence.

She’d experienced something similar numerous times before, but never with her clothes so clear of anointed soil.

For the second time that day, Marie was at her side, encouraging deep breaths as she held her at least somewhat upright. Hilda leant into her presence, glad of her supporting arm around her.

“You are safe, ti sè.” Marie squeezed tightly as she spoke, the panic slowly washing away from Hilda with each passing second, “Whatever lespri means you harm has stilled.”

“For now.” Her sister scoffed from the other side of the room. 

It seemed she had relocated to the drinks trolley at some point during Hilda’s time on the floor. She leant heavily against it, knuckles white with the intensity of her grip, as she poured a fresh whiskey, not stopping until it threatened to slosh over the sides. A second, more reasonable measure, was poured into a neighbouring glass. It was offered out to Hilda who was quite sure that her face was a mirror of Marie’s at the very suggestion.

“Perhaps some tea would do us better, yes?” Marie questioned, as though reading Hilda’s mind.

Pausing only long enough to help the shaken witch onto the sofa, Marie disappeared through to the kitchen with the promise of a fresh cup of something for her nerves.

The room chilled instantly without her presence and Hilda shivered despite the thick wool of her cardigan. The force after her still remained, just lay in wait, she had no doubt about that. By the time Zelda joined her at the sofa’s other end, half her whiskey was drained and she offered a decidedly blank expression.

“So, it’s not me trying to kill you after all? What a surprise.” She intoned dryly, crossing her legs as she leant back.

“You have to admit, there has been a certain history of sororicide that pointed in your direction.” Hilda’s voice was weaker than she’d anticipated; hoarse. 

Had she screamed during all the hullabaloo? She couldn’t recall but with the sheer level of noise she’d been met with at the time she doubted she’d have noticed. She rubbed at her throat (the tea would do it a world of good) before smiling meekly at her sister. 

“But not for a while, hey?” Hilda chanced, in the most supportive tone she could muster given the circumstances, “Nearly six months if I’m not mistaken.” She wasn’t; the calendar by her bed confirmed the tally, “And maybe I should have considered how hard you’ve tried before jumping to conclusions.”

“Mmm.” Zelda murmured in agreement, though her body relaxed somewhat at the recognition. She cleared her throat as Marie appeared in the doorway, steaming tray of tea in hand, “Well let’s hear the true culprit shall we so we can all get on with the rest of our day without this,” She waved her hand in the general direction of the candelabra where it remained on the floor, “ _business._ ”

Accepting a cup of tea, the younger Spellman took it with both hands in an attempt to protect it from her shaking. It worked somewhat, but specks of tea still landed softly against her sleeves as she brought it to her lips.

She daren’t say the name for fear of angering yet another Spellman should it turn out she was wrong again. Instead, she stared pointedly at Zelda before offering a sad smile, well aware of how she felt about their aunt, “My nightmother.”

_Locasta._

* * *

The first time Hilda heard that fateful song it was not from her sister’s lips, but Locasta Spellman’s. Their father’s sister was a sinewy witch nearly a century his senior. By the time of Hilda’s birth, her back had hollowed and she rarely walked unaided. Yet the responsibility of nightmother had fallen to her. By Zelda’s accounts she had taken the role more seriously than Evanora had with her, before her untimely passing.

Though a quarter of a millennia had passed since, Hilda still remembered the feeling of being wrapped in willowy arms as a babe, the haggered voice butchering what would seem hauntingly sweet in her sister’s own timbre.

 _“Two little sisters living in a bower_ _  
_ _Oleander yolling_ _  
_ _The youngest was the fairest flower_ _  
_ _Down by the waters rolling_ ”

Locasta stroked at the light smattering of golden fuzz atop Hilda’s head. It caught in her ring, tugging sharply as she moved her hand away, earning a scream from the little one. Touch suddenly soft again, she ran a bony finger over the infant’s rosy cheek.

“ _A noble knight came riding by_ _  
_ _Oleander yolling_ _  
_ _Two little sisters caught his eye_ _  
_ _Down by the waters rolling_ ”

Hilda let out a yawn, nestling into her nightmother’s arms, earlier upset forgotten, as Zelda strove to push on with her book from her place by the fire. It was no secret, in the Spellman family, to which sisters the song referred. Evanora had been little over 100 when she was found at the river’s edge, golden curls sullied with dirt from the river’s bed.

“ _And he courted the eldest with diamonds and rings_ _  
_ _Oleander yolling_  
_The other he loved above all things_ _  
_ Down by the waters rolling”

Book slamming closed, Zelda rose from the fire’s warmth, taking the small bundle of blankets and soft curls from her aunt’s arms, “Why don’t we take you for a walk, Hildegarde? The moon will do us both some good.”

Keeping her sister clutched close to her chest, as she wrapped a shawl around them, Zelda readied herself for the brisk night air. Before she could reach the door however, her aunt’s thin voice brought her to a stop in the hall, reminding her of the warning she’d given every day since Hilda’s birth just six months prior.

“She’ll be your downfall if you let her, Zelda, all younger sisters are.”

“I know.” Zelda agreed solemnly, before stepping out into the chill.

* * *

“After Evanora, is it really that far fetched to think she would?” Hilda questioned, hands having steadied now she’d reached the bottom of her tea.

Zelda’s face was one of consternation, her whiskey sitting forgotten in her grip. From her place on the arm of the chair, Marie leant forward, rubbing her lover’s arm comfortingly. As though forgetting herself, Zelda’s brow smoothed slightly and she softened into the touch.

“Is it possible, ma cherie?”

“She had been adamant that I should,” She paused, struggling for the words before Marie’s gentle squeeze of her shoulder, “ _take care_ of my own sister problem before I too fell victim to the old maid’s life.”

“But if she sees me-” Marie began, the first hint of trepidation colouring her voice.

It was Zelda’s turn to comfort. She turned in her seat, hair fanning out in a fiery wave. Her hand reached for Marie’s, pulling it into her grip. Though she had walked in on far more _intense_ moments between the two, Hilda found her cheeks reddening with the sudden feeling that this wasn’t for her to see. She glanced down into what remained of her tea, kicking her legs back and forth rhythmically where her feet didn’t quite reach the floor.

“Marie you and I both know an angry spirit isn’t as easily appeased as that. In her eyes I’m nothing more than a jilted..” She broke off before she could vocalise the word, but it hung heavy in the air.

_Wife._

Not quite the maid that Locasta had predicted, but a wife alone was doubtless no better in her eyes. Hilda toyed with her own engagement ring. Dr Cee wasn’t even part of the coven. And, though she was grateful for it, she’d hardly had a hand to play in Faustus’ leaving. Surely Locasta could see that?

“But I have seen you resurrect your sister, ma chou. And, if it has happened before, death does not keep you down for long, Hilda.” Marie’s voice was rich with renewed determinism once more. 

Though, as Hilda glanced up, her eyes sparkled with the remainder of unshed tears. It was somehow worse than such a sight in her sister’s eyes.

“The rules are quite clear,” Zelda sighed, remembering her whiskey and drinking deeply from it, “The Cain Pit can only resurrect those killed by mortal means. And anything at the hands of a spirit would be quite the opposite.”

“Then what do we do? A seance? _Crise de lwa?_ ”

“We find a way to appease her.” Hilda asserted, reaching for the copy of _Possessions, Spirits, and Unearthly Happenings_ again.

Zelda nodded in agreement though it seemed she had found her own solution, “We find Faustus.”

“We do not!” Aghast, Hilda wrenched her sister’s hands from Marie’s, spilling whiskey on the floor for the second time that day.

Both Spellmans shared an equally immovable expression, staring the other down. There were many situations in which Hilda was more than prepared to defer to Zelda’s ‘better’ judgement. This however was one she was adamant there was no room for movement on. 

So, it seemed, was Zelda, “Hilda, your life is non-negotiable.”

“As is yours.” Hilda contended, willing her sister to see reason, “Locasta’s ring.” She ran her finger over it where it sat against Zelda’s knuckle, “Three witches, a full moon tonight. We hold her off until then, and we bind her to it. The same as we did with her gravestone.”

“Before it cracked.” Zelda added, voice soft as she pieced together her sister’s thinking.

“Exactly.”

Hilda paused, searching Zelda’s expression for any clues as to whether she would go along with her plan. Truly, it was little more than theory that held it together, and the number of ‘ifs’ it depended on left a lot of room for error, but she would see the alternative only over her dead body. She gulped. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

Nodding, Zelda loosened the ring from her finger, placing it in Hilda’s palm, “Marie, I believe we may have need for a dance of protection.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to stop suggesting how long this is going to be because somehow it keeps slipping away for me. I'll just say we've got at least one more chapter to go; the binding.  
> Thanks for reading and as always any comments are adored!
> 
> Inyore mèt envizib. Swiv limyè a sèlman - Ignore invisible masters. Follow the light only  
> Ti sè - little sister  
> Lespri - spirit  
> Ma chérie - my darling  
> Mon chou - sweetie/my cabbage  
> Crise de lwa - Voodou possession ritual


	4. Her Grizzly Saviour

Edward had arrived shortly before Hilda’s seventh birthday, as a vibrant summer gave way to the oranges of autumn. He was smaller than she’d expected, given how much her mother’s stomach had protruded, and seemingly full of anger if his constant cries were anything to go by. Little other than their mother’s arms had stopped them in the days since his birth, and yet Hilda was certain if only she could hold him she too could quell his fears.

Now, in his nursery the day before her birthday, she was the first to reach him as his cries echoed through the halls. On tip-toes, she peered down into his bassinet, offering out her own stout finger to his balled fists.

“Edward,” She smiled broadly, dimples flashing as she cooed the same way she’d heard her mother do with each of his conniptions, “Look here, Edward!” Hilda waved her fingers excitedly above his brow, garnering the babes attention, “It’s Hilda!”

His cries quieted for a moment as his fingers wrapped around hers. Rosy red cheeks shone up at her, as his howls became whimpers, before her finger was released and he wailed with renewed vigour.

Hilda’s tiny brow furrowed with concern. In her (nearly) seven years she could not recall ever being as angry as her brother was now. If she were being honest, she wasn’t even certain what he had to be angry about. Of all the Spellman’s he saw their mother most, was held most, hugged most, and had already been the centre of attention at that weekend’s Sunday mass. Bar the last one, it was everything Hilda dreamed of and, until Edward’s birth, everything Hilda had had.

Tears formed in her own eyes at the thought but she blinked them away quickly; it would not do to cry in front of the baby. Not if she were to prove she could be useful here too.

The bassinet sat slightly too tall for her to reach in properly and so, using all her might, she shoved the large armchair from the corner of the room to its side, calling out as she went.

“Don’t you worry Edward, big sister Hilda will fix everything!” It came out in a series of grunts as she positioned the chair and clambered onto it.

From her new vantage point her brother looked even smaller, and she could see why he’d already gained the affectionate moniker ‘little demon.’ She could admit he was cute, even despite his screams.

Dangling over the edge, she reached in with stubby arms to lift him.

“Hildegarde!” An acerbic voice from the entryway startled her.

She should have heard Locasta’s stick. Quick as a flash, Hilda’s arms were back at her sides, her own cries mixing with Edwards in preparation for the stern telling off she was no doubt likely to receive. Her lower lip trembled. The evidence of her crime was clear as day; Edward’s blanket loose around him from where she’d intended to lift him from it.

“Aunt Locasta,” Hilda sobbed, breath hitching between words, “Edward needed help.”

The heels of her palms were already pushing the damp from her cheeks as she lost herself to the flood of tears. Locasta’s cane made for a hollow third step as she hastened across the floor, wrenching the distraught child from her brother’s side.

“What have you been told?” Locasta’s hand snaked to Hilda’s cheek, pinching it sharply as her saccharine words sounded over the cries.

Hilda wiggled desperately in her aunt’s clutches. She’d never found comfort in her arms, doubted anyone ever had. Her cries rang louder, Edward’s picking up too at her obvious distress.

“Not to meddle where I’m not wanted.” She hiccupped between sobs, cheeks red as she frantically tried to stem the flood of tears.

“And you’re not wanted here.”

“I’ll take her from here.” The familiar scent of tobacco smoke overpowered the room as soft arms encircled Hilda.

Her grizzly saviour. She nuzzled into the warmth of her sister’s chin, shielding her from her aunt’s furore.

“The younger you do it the better, Zelda.” While she didn’t like anything Locasta said, Hilda certainly didn’t like the sound of that.

“As I’m well aware.” Zelda’s sigh vibrated deep in her chest into Hilda’s skin too.

It was rare that Zelda carried her anywhere anymore; insisting that she walk on her own Satan-given legs like a big girl would, but when she turned from the room, Hilda still in her arms, Hilda was grateful she didn’t always have to be a big girl just yet. But she would learn, from the best big sister in all the realms, and be the second best big sister Edward could hope for.

Her tears had all but dried up by the time they arrived in their room and the door shut firmly behind them. She wiped her cheeks with the collar of her dress just in case. Her bed offered more welcome safety; the comforter puffing up to enwrap her as Zelda set her down. She drew it tighter around her, a loose goose feather tickling her cheek at the action.

Just a fraction out of reach was her favourite wooden dolly. It was, as most things were for Hilda, a hand me down and bore the marks of Zelda’s play years earlier. In Hilda’s mind, its scratched out eyes and (hopefully) faux blood stains made it all the more special. She stretched a little arm out to grab it from her pillow, fingers scrambling against it until her sister placed it firmly in her hand before retreating.

“I don’t think Auntie Locasta likes me.” Hilda sniffled the admission, hugging the doll close to her chest.

“Good.” Zelda smirked, lighting a cigarette as she settled in front of the dressing table at the opposite side of the room, “Being liked is a triviality you needn’t concern yourself with.”

Hilda didn’t know what a triviality _was_ , but if Zelda said not to worry about it, she wouldn’t, not while she had her sister there to look out for her. If the thick coat of lipstick she was applying meant anything though, Zelda would be leaving soon.

A fresh worry hit her, one that had been bubbling under the surface for days, and Hilda blinked away a new wave of watery tears, “But Edward will like me?”

Tired eyes met hers in the mirror, “You will love Edward.”

If it was meant to be comforting it wasn’t entirely, but love was better than like so Hilda nodded anyway, brushing back her curls when they fell in her eyes.

By the time Zelda was misting sweet perfume across her throat, Hilda’s forearms were numb from the force with which she held the doll tight to her, wood jutting into her skin at odd angles. She didn’t release it, only adjusted her grip so it wouldn’t fall.

“Zelda.” She waited for any acknowledgement that she had been heard before continuing. When one wasn’t forthcoming she pushed on anyway in her tiniest voice, “Will you sing me the song?”

The perfume bottle was set down, “Do you really need the song, Hildie?”

The force of her nod made her dizzy. She absolutely needed the song. On evenings with lipstick and perfume Zelda wouldn’t come home until morning. Their father didn’t like the lipstick. The one occasion he had caught Zelda sneaking back in with it still smeared across her lips, she had heard Zelda's screams from his office. Zelda hadn’t picked Hilda up or played with her for the rest of the week.

Hilda had never been a good liar, and if asked where her sister had gone she didn’t think she could manage another week without hugs, not while Edward monopolised their mother’s attention and certainly not while Locasta was still staying with them. And so she would need to be asleep, fast asleep, should anyone come in to check on her.

Sighing heavily, Zelda tucked her in until Hilda was all but lost amongst over-plumped cushions and blankets. She perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing down golden curls when Hilda was nothing but those and rosy cheeks.

Her voice, though hoarse, was soothing as the tide and Hilda was lost to sleep far before the song’s end.

_"It's your own true love I'll have and more  
_ _Oleander yolling  
_ _But you shall never come to shore_

_For your cherry cheeks and your long yellow hair  
_ _Oleander yolling  
_ _Made me a maid for evermore."_

* * *

The drum beat was vital, Marie had assured them of that, and yet, as Zelda tapped out the rhythm as instructed, her cheeks flushed violently. There was a time when she would not even have entertained the notion but now, whether for Hilda’s sake, or thanks to Marie’s gentle encouragement, she drummed on resolutely. It was not a beat she was familiar with and she had faltered several times already, cursing quietly on each occasion that the rhythm was thrown or her wrist, rather than her palm, impacted with the drum’s skin.

It happened again, wrist connecting with the solid wood of the drum’s base, the sound ricocheting against the parlour walls. She winced, cradling it for only a moment as she attempted to continue with the other hand. Hilda had never known that exact combination of humiliation, pain and vexation to flash through her sister’s eyes, but any of the three on their own had the ability to place Hilda in the Cain Pit. She trusted her sister's restraint in not killing her, but with how today was going she would be taking as few chances as possible. So it was with trepidation that she rose from the supine position Marie had placed her in upon the couch.

“Why don’t I take over, Zelds?” She offered lightly, already swinging her legs off the sofa’s edge.

“ _Rete._ ” Marie’s hand at her shoulder stilled her, “You must stay still, _ti sè_ , or it will be the sofa we’re protecting, not you.”

At Marie’s insistence, she lowered herself back onto the cushions, eyes still fixed on her sister.

“Besides,” Marie started towards Zelda, capturing her attention as she slid in behind her, an arm either side of hers as she interlocked their fingers, brushing a gentle kiss against the injured wrist, “Zelda is _très_ skilled with her hands. She will manage.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Zelda husked, pressing back into Marie’s embrace.

She couldn’t be certain but, if the burning in them was anything to go by, Hilda’s cheeks were as red as Zelda’s had been only moments before. She turned her attention to the ceiling, studiously appraising the peeling paintwork.

“ _Ça fait mal?_ ” Marie’s voice was but a hushed whisper, but the concern carried well enough across the room that it reached Hilda too.

“ _J'ai eu pire_.” Zelda’s reply remained similarly low, both in volume and resonance, but held an uncharacteristic sincerity in whatever she was conveying.

“ _Je sais que tu as._ ”

Hilda was suddenly overwhelmingly thankful that her knowledge of French only stretched as far as it’s Latin roots for nothing about Marie’s delivery was delicate. In fact Hilda didn’t think she’d heard anyone speak more salaciously in their lives, and she’d had the misfortune of stumbling upon Zelda in the arms of nameless paramours more than once in their younger years.

The light fixtures creaked, a soft tinkling joining them that could well have been the windchimes just the other side of the window or a far more sinister ghostly reprisal beginning.

The drumming resumed a moment later and Hilda let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. With Marie’s assistance the beat was strong, a marked difference from the solo attempt her sister had given. Not one to cast aspersions, Hilda fought back the wave of doubt that filled her as to whether this could work when Zelda’s limited knowledge of Haitian magic would be battling with such a strong sense of propriety.

“ _Pouvez-vous gérer cela seul?_ ”

“ _Oui_.” That one she understood at least, Zelda sounding certain enough that a little of Hilda’s anxiety dissipated.

“ _D’accord._ ” Marie clapped her hands together, suddenly far closer than Hilda had anticipated, “Now, _ti sè,_ you must stay very still.”

* * *

The rest of the day had remained thankfully quiet, save for their continued preparations. Marie had insisted on her and Zelda spending every moment with Hilda just in case Locasta had been lying in wait. While Zelda had rolled her eyes at the mere suggestion, Hilda had been grateful; until the moment Marie had stood to follow her into the bathroom and suddenly the notion of bodyguards seemed wholly ridiculous.

Now, as they sat around the dinner table at Hilda’s behest as ‘they’d be no better prepared on an empty stomach,’ the three sat in an uneasy silence, no more than two bites of food having been consumed between them. It went unmentioned.

Unable to bear the pressing weight of her sister’s furrowed brow any longer, Hilda stood, crossing to the window at the other end of the kitchen. The lawn was quiet in the moonlight; Salem sat as lone sentinel at the porch’s edge. His whiskers twitched in concentration as he stared pointedly at what remained of Locasta’s grave.

There could be no more delaying it. The moon was high enough for their purpose and, given any more time to reconsider it, Hilda feared she might well lose her gumption. Thrusting her hands into her pockets, she turned on her heel, face falling at the pained expression that still occupied Zelda’s features.

She tutted though there was no sincerity to it, “I’m not dead yet Zelds. No point wearing yourself out yet.” Her jovial tone was no doubt belied by her own sombre mood and yet Zelda’s brow smoothed regardless.

She bundled up their supplies in her arms and, as they stepped out into the chill night air, she truly was flanked by the best bodyguards she could have hoped for.

For a moment, Hilda was glad she had been thwarted in planting her radishes. While they had met a rather unfortunate end, the frost already settling on the grass was more than her charms would have counteracted. They would have been frozen by dawn. She turned to voice this realisation but, upon seeing the gentle way Marie’s hand brushed against Zelda’s, it seemed insignificant. As quickly as contact was made, it was gone again, a reassuring reminder of each other’s presence all that passed between them.

The garden was not as quiet as it had looked from the window, life pushing on despite the threat of further chill. Something scurried past her slipper, no doubt the shrew that had spent the bulk of its winter months nestled in a secluded corner of the greenhouse. An owl hooted from the aging oak at the nearest end of the treeline. She daren’t think what that meant for the family of robins who had taken roost in it since she’d started hanging makeshift feeders for them.

As trite as it sounded, while Zelda had Marie’s comfort, Hilda had the garden’s and so she trudged on, despite the prickling sensation at her neck as a ghostly hum began to rise.

What remained of the grave was a sorry sight, even now; lit only by moonlight. Yes the stone lay in two, but more telling to Hilda was that, thanks to the passing of time, she couldn’t decipher the worn lettering on its surface. The headstones around it were equally, if not more, aged, and yet she had read them time enough in her youth to commit them to memory. Locasta’s she had steered clear of.

It seemed wrong that she should lie between their father and Evanora, and yet the plots had been selected long before any of their deaths and never contested after the fact. Now, over two centuries on from Locasta’s death, Hilda wished she’d had the mind to say something, but she doubted it would have placed her in any better standing with her spirit now.

“Hilda.” Zelda’s voice behind her was firm, startling her from her musings.

There was an unspoken push to it; a silent questioning of HIlda’s earlier assertion that she should be the one to do this, not Zelda. Perhaps she _had_ been staring too long to fill any of them with much confidence.

She pressed her lips together in what she hoped would come across as a smile of certainty rather than a grimace. If it appeared the latter, Zelda said nothing, reaching out wordlessly to take a stout candle from Hilda’s arms. She lit it before handing it to Marie and taking a second. When all but one of the thirteen were in position around the grave, Zelda held the final one within her hand and offered a sharp nod. At Hilda’s mirrored head jerk in response, she set the last one in place, completing the circle.

A sharp gust of wind blustered past them at its placement, threatening to snuff the flames. Whether it was Locasta or not remained to be seen, but there was definitely something more melodical to it than any natural wind she’d known.

“Right then,” Hilda gulped, rocking softly on her heels when no more preamble could delay them further, “I’ll start, shall I?”

If seeing Locasta in life had been troubling enough, to actively invite her murderous, spectral form seemed frankly foolhardy. And yet she began.

_“Family mine,  
Take back what is yours,  
Feel the bond,  
Remember blood._”

Locasta’s ring cut into her palm with how tightly she gripped it, no doubt leaving actual blood. They had contemplated a more traditional séance before binding her but, given the strength of Locasta’s presence in their realm already, had decided against it in favour of a hastily constructed familial outreach charm.

The wind whipped more violently, that haunting song carrying on it again. Locasta was listening at least.

_“Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam  
_ _Oleander yolling  
_ _Till she came to a miller's dam  
_ _By the waters rolling.”_

Hilda thrust the ring into the dirt of Locasta’s grave, repeating the words with a frantic urgency, barely noting the addition of Marie and Zelda’s voices to bolster hers.

_“Family mine,  
Take back what is yours,  
Feel the bond,  
Remember blood.  
Join us here,  
Join us now,  
Convene with us,  
Let us make good._”

Still the gale built, song lifting to a deafening shrill. Before them the ground itself flew from the grave’s surface in increasingly sizable clumps. Crumbs, they hadn’t meant _physically_ join them. Hilda ducked each clump she could, thankful for the added deflection Marie’s protection spell provided.

She doubted it would do anything, however, against the oak breaking free of its earthly confines mere feet away, the owl long gone. If the bird hadn’t dispatched her robins, this certainly would. Hilda had planted that tree in her youth, protected it from harsh storms until its roots grew strong enough to support itself through the fiercest of winters. She most certainly did not want to die by that tree.

“Zelda!”

Before her panicked cry could grow to more, Hilda was thrown to the ground, whether by Zelda or Marie’s arms she didn’t know but, as she lay in the dirt for the second time that day, she prayed to Hecate they had more to their plan.

“Hear me now, Locasta!” Zelda’s voice boomed from behind her, raspy as she fought over the wind at their throats, “Hildegarde is no Evanora and I _certainly_ am no you. We have never been the lonely maid or naïve sister.”

A hand clutched at Hilda’s, pulling her to standing. Though the wind bore down with ferocity enough that sight was near impossible, she’d recognise her sister’s hand in hers anywhere and squeezed it tighter than she had since her childhood. At Zelda’s other side, she could just make out Marie, hand looped with Zelda’s other, a harried Haitian charm falling from her lips. Zelda’s voice cut over it, raw, pulled from the very depths of her being.

_“Nocere tibi facturo, soror mea,  
_ Sentient cruciatum annulus;  
 _Quis est vir manum meam aliquando compeditus,  
_ Ad hunc annulum tibi, et erit alligatus!”

Though she knew it was coming, her sister’s hand ripping from Hilda’s brought a more than unwelcome emptiness. Zelda tugged harshly at a cord around her neck, tearing it in two, digging it into what remained of Locasta’s resting place with the heel of her palm. As it sank, the wind halted, and the singing with it.

“ _Ma chérie?_ ”

As Marie helped Zelda to her feet, Hilda could look nowhere other than at the cord Zelda had planted in the grave and the object attached to it, glinting in the moonlight beneath Locasta’s own ring: Zelda’s wedding band.

A breeze tousled Hilda’s curls, a soft breeze this time, one she’s felt time and again throughout her life; the welcome “hello” of nature. But on it, Hilda could swear, came the hints of an incorporeal hum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then!! How are you all enjoying the flashbacks? I bat back and forth between whether the balance is right between times spent on Hilda and Zelda's relationship and on Zarie so I hope I'm hitting the mark with it!  
> And how do you feel about the balance of French/Haitian Creole? A lot of Marie and Zelda's dialogue in this chapter is in French to give that feeling of it being a moment just between the two of them. Does just having the translations at the end of the chapter work for you guys or is there another way you'd prefer?  
> As always, I adore every one of you for reading and please do let me know what you think!
> 
> Rete - stop  
> Ti sè - little sister  
> très - very  
> Ça fait mal? - it hurts?  
> J'ai eu pire - I've had worse  
> Je sais que tu as - I know you have  
> Pouvez-vous gérer cela seul? - can you handle it alone?  
> Oui - yes  
> D'accord - okay  
> Ma chérie - my darling
> 
> Nocere tibi facturo, soror mea,  
> Sentient cruciatum annulus;  
> Quis est vir manum meam aliquando compeditus,  
> Ad hunc annulum tibi, et erit alligatus! - You who would do my sister harm, Feel the torment in this ring, The hand my husband shackled, To this ring and yours be bound (I know no Latin at all so take this with a large pinch of salt because I could only make so much sense of Google Translate)


	5. Amorous Attractions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, P4 was a kick in the teeth. I'd already taken a bit of a writing hiatus and that threatened to seal the deal. But I've been looking forward to this ending and y'all knowing what's going on since the get go so, with the need for Marie to have a better backstory fuelling me, we're finally at the end. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!

The room was painfully silent as Zelda rid herself of dirt covered clothes at the other end of the bed. Despite the distance, the scent of damp earth hung heavy in the air; a subtle reminder of Louisiana summers and the rainy season in Port-Au-Prince.

Marie watched as Zelda’s dress pooled to the ground, any delight she would usually have taken at the sight of skin illuminated only by moonlight diminished by the witch’s inability to meet her eye.

Many admissions had been made that day, far more than Marie had ever expected. Yet, where the comfort of being so candidly known should have created a sense of relief, Zelda looked nothing but tired. Her frustration was palpable in the air, rippling from her in waves as she pulled dress after dress from the wardrobe none of them right. None of them would be right even if she pulled every hanger from it; the delicate lace of her nightgown already lay upon the duvet where she’d set it down that morning.

Zelda’s hand raked through the tousled curls falling across her face, pushing them back with a huff, “Blazes!”

Wordlessly, Marie crossed the room, to perch against the edge of the bed. Her fingertips sought out Zelda’s hips, ghosting over them with just enough pressure to startle her as Zelda’s ire shifted from herself and onto the source of this new distraction. It earned Marie a raised eyebrow and a stinging slap to the forearm as her touch was rescinded.

There had been few times Marie’s touch had not served as a calming force on Zelda’s emotions, only two on record if she recalled correctly. The first, the night a particularly violent night terror took hold, seeing Zelda’s limbs flailing against invisible bonds, all attempts to rouse her sending her only further into her panic. The second was at the retrieval of a seemingly innocuous music box, pushed far to the back of a cabinet in her Academy chambers. Marie had set it spinning, filling the room with an enchanting melody unlike any she had heard before. It had been unceremoniously slammed shut the moment Zelda had set eyes on it, magic casting it across the room and into the crackling fireplace.

While Zelda would speak no further on the matters herself, later conversations with Hilda had confirmed the painfully unifying factor hanging heavy over her; Faustus. This was to make a third.

“It is hard to see the _pouvoir_ we have used against us.” Offering Zelda’s nightgown aloft as a symbolic olive branch, Marie spoke softly, hoping her words could bring calm where her touch could not, “Our hand forced.”

“Marie, this is not the time to-”

“It is a betrayal we never truly come back from.”

The gown was snatched from her, snagging against her ring, no doubt tearing the intricately woven fabric, “Whatever trivial _betrayal_ you’re going to attempt to relate to my marriage-”

“Trivial?” Her voice bit sharper than intended, a snarl deep in her throat colouring the normally melodic tone with the suddenly burning anguish that filled her, “You are the only one to have been manipulated by those you trust, Zelda Spellman?”

It was the closest she had come to anger in Zelda’s presence, rarely had she been more than mildly disgruntled while in Greendale, and if Zelda had been unable to meet her eyes previously it was nothing in comparison to how she evaded her gaze now.

Zelda cleared her throat softly, slipping the nightgown over her head, “No, I…” Any apology that might have been forthcoming died on her lips.

Had it not been for the unfavourable reaction it had elicited only moments before, Marie would gladly have slipped her hand into Zelda's to ease the uncertainty she had unwittingly brought about. Truth be told, she longed to feel the comfort of it warm within her own. Instead she sighed softly, patting the space on the bed beside her, lest the emotional chasm she felt building began mirroring the physical one that had appeared between them.

Zelda ignored it, settling on the edge of her bedside table instead, her hip displacing the lamp on its surface enough to knock it off centre and set the shade askew. If she noticed she didn’t acknowledge it, brow furrowed in consternation.

“We are not born knowing our met tet, and it is not always they who visit us first.” Marie’s own brow creased at the memory despite the many years that had passed since -- despite the ways she’d redeemed herself time and again since her ascension to Mambo.

Though Zelda had warmed considerably to the idea that Marie’s _‘brand’_ of witchcraft was not born of the same beliefs and deity as her own, their prior talks of voodooism had been surface deep; declared _sermo non grata_ when not entirely necessary due to how often it descended to hastily shut down discussions of the _‘false god’._ Those same arguments danced behind Zelda’s downcast eyes now, yet none were voiced, despite how it visibly pained her.

Whether it was Marie’s earlier abrasive reaction or the understanding that this story held more weight that kept Zelda quiet on the matter, Marie wasn’t sure.

In the absence of any protestation from Zelda, Marie continued, “I was impatient; quick to know who would guide me. We make shows of devotion to our met tets, _ma cherie,_ invite them to visit us.” Her lips pursed, the words souring on her tongue before she could speak them, _“Inhabit_ _us -_ if we let them _.”_

If the momentary flicker in Zelda’s eyes was anything to go by, they were skirting dangerously close to territory that would close her off entirely or provoke only emotionally fuelled responses. A short huff of bitter amusement sat heavy in Marie’s throat; if she were honest it was the one story that would provoke the same from her if not handled carefully.

“Did you?” Zelda’s voice was hoarse, eyes clouding, walls rising faster than Marie had thought possible when they were not talking of her own experience.

“I was visited by another lwa.” ‘Visited’ was the wrong word, she knew. She ignored it, “Not _bad,_ but not mine. Fiery, young, hungry. Our lwa are part of us; share the respect we offer them in return. But they will only come when we are ready.”

“And you weren’t?”

“I thought I was. I sought mine out.” Marie paused, puzzling out how best to go about an explanation, “I have been told I can be _direct_ with my wishes.”

A stifled chirp of laughter cut the severity of the mood and, by the time Marie’s eyes fixed on Zelda, her fingers covered her lips apologetically. The remains of near-shed tears still shone in her eyes though.

“I would say that’s an astute observation.” Zelda affirmed, a burgeoning smile poorly hidden.

Marie’s hand drifted, palm up to the surface of the pillow closest to Zelda in silent offering should she want it - _need_ it - as Marie did.

“We must be careful with the spirits, _ma cherie._ I summoned what I shouldn’t have.” A darkness fell over her at the memory, “What I had no _right_ to.”

Marie stayed silent for a long minute, the events playing out in her mind as clearly as if they were happening again.

“You have heard who can be bartered with at a crossroads, no?”

Zelda shook her head softly and suddenly, the words Marie would need were trapped; locked deep in a chest that would not release them. She had gone about it the wrong way; knew she shouldn’t have approached it when the anger that fuelled the admission couldn’t so easily shift to this...this... _shame._

“Marie, I made a judgement where I shouldn’t have done,” Zelda’s hand scooped under Marie’s chin, tilting it upward until their eyes locked and seeing her own pain mirrored back in Zelda’s eyes was worse than she could have imagined, “You owe me no more explanation than I owe you.”

Clutching at the hand propping up her chin, Marie fought back the self-intended vitriol that rose. As her touch grounded Zelda, Zelda’s would ground her. She would _make_ it. But as a calm began to settle, she realised she wouldn’t have to; Zelda’s thumb tracing a soothing, barely there trail of heat across her skin was already doing that for her.

“Spellman’s are stubborn creatures. You show me far more tolerance than you should.” Zelda continued, meeting her with rarely offered understanding that put Marie’s own to shame.

Zelda would not be the first to know. No, the first Marie had told had been her mother. Well, she had asked for forgiveness from the woman as her Mambo, and received only a mother’s concern. Then, decades later, when she herself was made Mambo, she had told the young witch she had seen far too much of herself in, warning her off attempting anything similar before her own Kanzo. But both had known the implications of every action, both had known the implicit danger that came with demanding of the spirits before they saw fit to give. Zelda understood neither and the threat of an easy misstep further othering her in her eyes was not an eventuality she found herself willing to face.

“I would like you to know. I would be _honoured_ for you to know.” And she would be, should she be able to express it.

“And I would be honoured to know. _When_ you are ready to tell me.”

The tears in Zelda’s eyes rivalled those in her own but, as she leant forward, a hand warming either side of Marie’s face, the only thing Marie found herself met with was an overwhelming sense of belonging and soft lips passionate against hers. Her hands sought purchase against the fine fabric of Zelda’s nightgown, pulling her from the nightstand and into far more preferable positioning in her lap.

Despite the greater evil she had been sent to assist in defeating, at that moment, Marie couldn’t help but believe that, with Zelda Spellman in her arms, body fitting perfectly with hers _this_ was the true reason her Met Tet had sent her to Greendale. _Zelda_ was the reason. Had she not been otherwise occupied she might have voiced this. As it was, as the kiss intensified and she toyed with the wrinkled edges of Zelda’s nightgown, where it had hitched to mid-thigh in her haste for physical contact, she was in no rush to distract from this moment.

* * *

What remained of their pre-binding dinner - three all but untouched plates - was no match for a pair of her best rubber gloves and Hilda’s practiced hands. Having sealed the leftovers away into tupperware to no doubt be demolished by her nephew upon his return from whatever trouble he and Sabrina were getting themselves into that evening, she turned to the dishes, fixing them with a steely glare.

“Now then, you’re mine.” She announced with all the Terminator-eque gusto she could manage after such an intense show of magic.

Locasta’s grave still stood, an imposing sight, out the window to her right. She did her best to ignore it, instead plunging wrist deep into soapy water.

There was a certain calm in cleaning - in cleaning her kitchen at least. Areas more regularly frequented were another beast entirely for the horrors she could uncover, but the kitchen was well and truly _hers._ And Marie’s, she supposed, the additions to her spice rack decidedly foreign but welcome.

She found the chef’s knife in the bottom of the washing up bowl, or rather, her glove suffered a casualty at the hands of the chef’s knife poking up from the bottom of the washing up bowl. Water flowed into the glove, soaking her hand as she pulled the blade out, setting it heavily in the dishrack. At least it wasn’t her hand. She’d had more than enough close calls in the last 24 hours for the rest of the year.

When her time finally came, and she hoped it’d be a fair while yet, she’d be settling a few things with Aunt Locasta, that’s for certain. No matter how Sabrina had vexed her in the last sixteen years murder had never factored into her thoughts. She’d gone so far as short time outs and (quickly repealed) threats of bedtimes with no dessert, but even with a Cain Pit death seemed a smidgen far. She doubted even Zelda had entertained it and she was considerably more au fait with familial murders.

No, Locasta was a law unto her own but she had no reason to-

_“And as they stood at the river's brim”_

It was more than a hum, more than a tune on the breeze. As the singing started again, the words rang out at such deafening volume that all semblance of the calming lullaby it had once been was gone, replaced by unrivalled determination.

_“Oleander yolling  
_ _The eldest pushed her sister in”_

From the dishrack, the knife began to vibrate, fighting earthly limitations in an attempt to no doubt launch itself straight at her. She grabbed its handle, forcing it further down, forearm burning with the effort.

_"Sister, sister, reach me your hand  
_ _Oleander yolling  
_ _And you'll be the heir to my riches and land  
_ _Down by the waters rolling."_

Cupboard doors began clattering in earnest, the plates hidden behind them rattling with the force. One knife she could keep at bay, but an entire kitchen’s contents hurtling for her?

_"Oh Sister, sister, that will never be  
_ _Oleander yolling  
_ _Till salt and oatmeal grow of a tree  
_ _Down by the waters rolling."_

Feeling every bit the deer in the headlights, Hilda’s head shot up, eyes straining to see Locasta’s grave through the window. Though worse for wear after the evening’s events, the lawn was comparatively still; Salem still patrolling the area immediately surrounding the fractured stone meaning one thing: it wasn't Locasta. _It wasn’t Locasta._

_"Oh sister, sister, lend me but your glove  
_ _Oleander yolling  
_ _And you shall have my own true love  
_ _Down by the waters rolling."_

_If it wasn’t Locasta..._ She didn’t know how, didn’t care to work it out when her impending demise loomed so imminently, but it was Zelda. It _had_ to be. And it had to stop. _Now._

Taking off as fast as her legs would carry her, Hilda hurtled towards the staircase, letting go of the knife in the process. As she clutched the banister as a makeshift pivoting ballast, it seemed the knife had followed her course, imbedding itself deep in the aged wood inches from her hands. Hilda squeaked, taking the stairs two at a time, kicking off her slippers when they slowed her progress. If the noises following her were anything to go by, the slippers wouldn’t be the only casualty if she moved any slower.

“Zelda!” She panted out, voice barely audible above the din of crashing pots and pans, making their way up the stairs.

Doors along the corridor flung themselves open to join the excitement, each room vibrating with the same force controlling the contents of the kitchen as it gained on her.

_"It's your own true love I'll have and more”_

Reaching Zelda’s door, the only not to have opened of its own accord, Hilda flung it back on its hinges, skittering into the room on shaking legs.

Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been... _that._ Despite the pressing danger, Hilda’s hand flew across her eyes, blocking out the sight of her sister, sat astride Marie, bunched up nightdress doing nothing to protect her modesty, as the other witch cried out in ecstasy beneath her.

“For Hecate’s sake, Hilda!” A rustle of fabric joined Zelda’s admonishment, but did little to dampen the clear vexation in it.

Perhaps if she killed her before a rogue rolling pin had the chance it would be less painful at least. But, with a definitive thud, Hilda’s inanimate assailants fell to the floor in tandem and the song halted.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

Hand falling just enough to let her see back down the hallway, Hilda’s suspicions were confirmed as, littering the floor, was a myriad of banal items from around the house.

“The song…” She drifted off.

She hadn’t imagined it, they wouldn’t be there if she had. And yet looking back at the clutter behind her, there had been no obvious cause for the ruckus.

“ _Ma cherie_ , it is okay.” A satin robe had been found from somewhere for Marie, matching the one now flung across Zelda’s shoulders.

“It most certainly is _not_ okay.” Her voice softened as she knelt at the edge of the bed, taking Marie’s face in her hands to look deeply into her eyes. It was all but a whisper when she finally spoke again, “Are you alright?”

Marie’s gentle nod and the following kiss to her palm seemed to placate Zelda somewhat and she moved to adjust the lapels of Marie’s hastily donned robe.

“Zelda,” Realisation slowly dawned and where fear, and a heavy dose of bashful embarrassment had coloured Hilda’s cheeks, a knowing grin pulled her lips wide enough to near cover all signs of their ruddy hue, “How do you feel?”

“How do I feel living in a shoddily written thriller movie parody?”

“No, how do you _feel_? Before I came in you were…” Hilda drifted off, highly doubting she could voice the end of her sentence in anything other than a series of progressively higher pitched giggles, “Have your emotions been heightened lately?”

Zelda glared obtusely.

“Without an outlet for your anger, do you think your...telekinesis might be channelling through to your other emotions?”

“You are telekinetic?” Marie questioned and Hilda found herself wondering what exactly the two of them _did_ talk about.

“Involuntarily.” Zelda acknowledged before moving to pace the room, robe flowing out behind her, “That’s preposterous Hilda, you know as well as I do that the emotional intensity required is only reached through near-murderous rage.”

The near was unnecessary; every prior bout had ended in Hilda’s death at her hands.

“And love.” Hilda stated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

There was a charged pause before Zelda balked, visibly refusing the suggestion, “Poppycock, witches don’t _love._ ”

“ _Lucifer_ doesn’t love.” Hilda clarified, “Pagan’s love, and secular witches.”

“And Voodooisants.” Marie interjected, prompting Hilda to nod along in agreement.

“And Hellenic, which the Church of _Hecate_ falls into. Don’t you think?”

She’d done a fair bit of research into the possibilities when, some months prior, just the thought of ironing Dr Cee’s work cape had set her heart aflutter. There was no doubt in her mind that what she’d experienced was the first firings of true love after they’d discarded the trappings of Lucifer’s magic and everything that came with it. With Zelda’s propensity for heightened emotion...

“You’re suggesting that Locasta might not have been present at all? That my…” Zelda trailed off, seemingly incapable of completing that train of thought, “ _amorous attractions_ might be causing this?” Her voice was thick with incredulity.

“Not...attractions,” Hilda’s cheeks flamed, her heart pounding in her chest at the mere thought of what it would mean for her sister if it really was the case, _“Love.”_

* * *

As the door closed behind Hilda, Marie pushed up to her knees, reaching out a hand to draw and end to Zelda’s pacing.

“What do you think, _ma cherie_? Might you _love_ me?” She teased, watching the same question play out on Zelda’s features.

“Don’t push it, Marie.” The warning held none of the bite it could.

“Because, if it would make you feel more comfortable in it,” Marie’s fingers laced with Zelda’s drawing them up to her lips to ghost soft kisses across her knuckles, “I love you, Zelda Spellman. And I would be honoured to know if you loved me too. _When_ you are ready to tell me.”

* * *

If it was possible to be more joyous than she was at this moment, Hilda didn’t want to know about it. Clearing their destroyed hallway, after a day of multiple close calls with death, in which she discovered that her aunt bore her no more ill-will than usual but that her sister was experiencing love for the first time in 3 centuries had Hilda happier than a child in a sweet shop.

That Marie loved Zelda was clear as day; she’d seen it the first time she’d walked in on her stroking Zelda’s hair as she rested on the sofa following a particularly arduous day at the Academy. She continued to see it with every cigarette lit, every article read aloud, and every sweet treat pilfered from the kitchen when she thought Hilda wasn’t looking. But maybe, just maybe, Zelda loved her back.

A haunting hum started up once more and Hilda’s grin widened. That settled it, Zelda Phiona Spellman was a lovesick teenager at 306 years old.

It wasn’t until the shards of broken dishes and haphazardly strewn books started vibrating set to take flight once more that the smile faded. Tonight she’d stay at Dr Cee’s. They could find a solution in the morning.

As Hilda stepped out onto the porch, her sister’s laughter through the open window mingled with the old folk song, Locasta’s grave sat quiet as it had for centuries and life was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? A fluffy ending? I couldn't help myself!
> 
> I still have a few things I'm keen to explore with this one (namely Marie's backstory and a couple of sibling snapshots with a side of bitter Locasta) so there'll be more from this universe if you're even slightly as reluctant to let it go as I am! My question is, with pre-canon fics, what do you prefer; the storytelling style Marie uses in this chapter, present day fics featuring flashbacks, or fics set when the flashback takes place? It might take me a little while but let me know if there's anything you'd like to see
> 
> Well, that's it folks! Thanks for joining me for the ride! I appreciate each and every one of you who's taken the time to show this little ship and the Spellman sisters some love and if you've got a little more to give I'd love to hear your thoughts!


End file.
